If he does not move, he will die. Eliot knows this. He knows this as he watches the shapes at the surface of the water grow distant and dim, like they're powering down. He knocks into the rising bilge, bits of broken furniture, chairs, splintered doors, his body tossed and pinned and still slipping.
It's never felt less like it belonged to him, his body. Always needing and rotting and breaking down, showing critical failure points when it's least convenient.
He fights to keep sight of surface. How horribly easy it would be to just forget which way is out, again. No milemarkers here. Just nothing, nothing and wreckage and him. The tightness in his chest twists one tighter, a spike of pain wrings a gasp out of him and he's sucking water, sucking water and he feels hands at his throat, at his mouth. They're his hands.
They're his hands and he can move them. He hauls himself toward surface. Every motion burns, slow and dragging and his head reels. And he's coughing and he's sucking more water and he thrashes, clawing at the water until he feels wood, splinters coming up under his nails. Then air.
claustrophobia warn! dissociation, panic attacks, drowning, hand/nail horror a lil
It's never felt less like it belonged to him, his body. Always needing and rotting and breaking down, showing critical failure points when it's least convenient.
He fights to keep sight of surface. How horribly easy it would be to just forget which way is out, again. No milemarkers here. Just nothing, nothing and wreckage and him. The tightness in his chest twists one tighter, a spike of pain wrings a gasp out of him and he's sucking water, sucking water and he feels hands at his throat, at his mouth. They're his hands.
They're his hands and he can move them. He hauls himself toward surface. Every motion burns, slow and dragging and his head reels. And he's coughing and he's sucking more water and he thrashes, clawing at the water until he feels wood, splinters coming up under his nails. Then air.